


pater/filius

by gracieminabox



Series: horizons universe [10]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11893308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: "Even without the label, you always were."Jim calls Chris something other than Chris.





	pater/filius

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to AudunaDruitt for putting this idea in my head!

Chris came to from his catnap on the couch to the sound of an entry code being thumbed in on the front door, followed by the _hiss_ of it sliding open and permitting entry. Chris smiled, flicked off the holo he’d been (not) watching, and made his way to the foyer.

Phil looked tired, and a little more solemn than usual. He dropped his medkit in the entryway, hung up his jacket, and rolled his shoulders with a sigh.

“Hey,” Chris greeted with a grin.

Phil looked up, laid eyes on Chris, and smiled softly with what looked like relief. He wound his arms around Chris’ middle and let out a long, low exhale. Chris absorbed his weight, slipping his hands into the back pockets of Phil’s scrub pants.

“Y’okay?” Chris asked softly, taking note of Phil’s uncharacteristic quiet.

Phil nodded into Chris’ shoulder. “Not a good day,” he murmured softly.

Chris moved his hands up on Phil’s back, rubbing his shoulder blades. “Wanna talk about it?”

Phil looked at Chris, cupped his face in his hands, and kissed his mouth soundly. “I really, _really_ don’t.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, letting his lips curl into a tiny smirk, but Phil continued.

“What I want to do is open the most expensive bottle of wine we’ve got, curl up under a blanket with you, make a fire – because it’s fucking _freezing_ outside – and – ” Phil mirrored Chris, slipping his hands into the back pockets of Chris’ jeans “ – let the evening unfold from there.”

Chris smiled slyly, kissing Phil’s cheek, then his jaw, then working his way down Phil’s neck. “I think that can be arranged,” he managed between kisses, feeling Phil’s pulse thud a little under his lips.

Phil sighed contentedly, then smartly remarked, “You’d better stop that or we’re never gonna get to the wine.”

Chris rolled his eyes, separating from Phil with one final smack on the lips. “Fine. Smartass. Go deal with the fire; I’ll get the wine.”

He was in the kitchen, contorting his body to an unnatural angle in order to reach their makeshift wine rack (in a glorified pantry), his cane in his teeth, when he heard the door chime. Phil must’ve gotten it and gotten rid of whoever it was, because Chris couldn’t hear voices.

“All right, you’ve got a choice,” he said on his way out of the kitchen. “We’ve got merlot and we’ve got some kinda pricey chardo – ”

He stopped at the sight in the living room. Phil was sitting on the coffee table, hands folded, fingers intertwined. In front of him, on the sofa, sat Jim Kirk, rocking back and forth agitatedly, reeking of booze and with red-rimmed eyes.

“Jim?” Chris asked confusedly, setting the bottles down on the end table. “What are you doing here? At – ” he checked the clock “ – nearly midnight?”

Jim looked up at Chris; there was no word for his expression but _wounded_ , and it cut Chris up inside. “Can I crash here for the night?” he asked, nasally and a little slurred – he’d clearly paid at least one bar a visit between home and the Pike-Boyce household.

Chris looked around for Len, down the hall toward the bathroom, the other way toward the foyer in the entryway. “What are you doing here? Where’s your husband?”

It was apparently the wrong question, because it made Jim cry more, which startled Chris. Phil looked back and shot Chris a look of concern.

“Home,” Jim finally answered. “Bones is at home.” He paused, trying to get his breathing under control, then spoke. “He came home in a really foul mood. I was trying to…I dunno, just help him feel better…I guess I said the wrong thing, and it snowballed, and he wound up telling me that he needed to be alone tonight and I should get out.”

“Len kicked you out?” Phil clarified. His voice was steady, but it had the tiniest inflection of incredulity in it, so slight that Chris was probably the only one who could pick up on it.

Jim buried his head in his hands and nodded. “Oh my god, he’s gonna leave me,” he sobbed. “He’s gonna leave me over a stupid joke. Fuck. _Fuck.”_

Phil lay a placating hand on the back of Jim’s neck. “Hey. _Hey_. Let’s not catastrophize this, all right? Did Len tell you why he was so upset?”

Jim couldn’t answer over the hiccupping he was doing.

“Okay, c’mon, Jim. C’mon.” Phil kept rubbing the back of his neck. “Try to take some deep breaths. It’s okay. It’s – Chris, _what_ are you doing?”

Chris was at the entrance to the room, angrily putting on his coat. “I’m gonna go have a little _chat_ with Dr. McCoy.”

Phil gave a look of deep exasperation. _“Chris.”_ He turned to Jim, who was…well, no worse…and left him to go over to Chris, talking quietly. “Don’t get between Jim and Len, okay? It’ll do more harm than good. You know that.”

“Len should not be _throwing his husband out_ to get _drunk_ and _cry_ just because he had a shitty day,” Chris intoned just as quietly.

“Listen,” Phil implored. “Len lost a patient on the table this afternoon. A little boy. A kid who _should’ve_ been able to be saved, but wasn’t. He’s kicking his own ass over it, because that’s what he does; and he can’t stop, because that’s also what he does. He’s on a hair trigger; Jim could’ve asked him what he wanted for dinner and it might’ve set him off.” Phil looked back at Jim, running a hand through his hair. “It might not be the worst idea for them to not be around each other tonight. For both their sakes.”

Chris looked at Phil, his expression softening. “Were you in that case?” he asked. “The boy?”

Phil shut his eyes and took a long, steady inhale. “No,” he said quietly. “But I was his mom’s OB.” He looked up at Chris, haunted. “I delivered him. Three years ago.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Chris sighed deeply, arms trembling with the need to take Phil and hold him close, but mindful of Jim, not far away and very much without arms to crawl into.

Phil scrubbed his face and tried to rapidly compose himself. _“I’m_ fucked up about it, and it wasn’t even my case. I know how Len’s feeling right now. I tried to talk to him before he left, and he’s a wreck.”

Chris nodded sadly; then, unable to resist, pulled Phil in and pecked his temple, an apology, a promise, and a comfort all in one. "Okay," he conceded. "Okay."

When they walked back into the living room, Jim was still sitting with his head between his knees, his hands laced on the back of his head.

“Did you bring any of your stuff with you?” Chris asked.

Jim looked up, dazed, and shook his head.

Chris nodded. “All right. Well. Let’s get some pillows. The couch is all yours.”

On his way back to the linen closet in the hall, Chris glanced sadly at the wine he’d left on the end table. “Guess we should put that back,” he muttered to Phil when they were out of Jim’s earshot.

“Or,” Phil corrected, “we take it to bed with us.” His look was insistent and piercing.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “With him in the next room?”

“Have you ever turned down a challenge, Admiral Pike?” Phil asked with a smirk, slipping a pillow into a pillowcase.

Chris grinned.

~

Chris stirred at around two in the morning to the sound of haphazard thudding coming from the hallway. Phil was, as usual, out like a light and spooned into Chris, his chilly feet wedged between Chris’ shins. Brushing a kiss on the back of Phil’s neck, Chris gently detangled himself from his partner’s body and walked out into the hall.

Jim Kirk sat on the hallway floor in front of the linen closet, wrapped in a blanket, hair askew. He was only conscious under the most generous definition of the term, and obviously still a little drunk.

“What are you doing up?” Chris asked mildly.

Jim started, then looked up at him. “Cold,” he mumbled drowsily. “Need ‘nother blanket.” He started rifling through some boxes on the bottom shelf, of holos from Chris’ grandparents’ house and Phil’s old scrubs that were a size too small but that he hung on to _“just in case.”_ No blankets to be seen at that level.

Chris spared a moment to shake his head at the pitiful figure poor Jim made on the floor, then tugged on his arm. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, “go back to the couch. I’ll get you a blanket.”

With Jim settling back down on the couch, Chris went back to the closet, tugged down an old quilt from the top shelf, and headed back out. Jim was curled in a ball, blanket tucked up to his chin, and the larger-than-life, bold, brash thirtysomething captain had never looked more like a little boy, not even when he _was_ one.

Chris shook out the quilt and covered Jim up, tucking it around him and turning him into a burrito. “Better?”

Jim nodded sleepily.

“Good,” Chris said. “Get some sleep.”

He turned to go back to the master bedroom when Jim spoke.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Chris very suddenly became aware of the still and the quiet in the room.

Something large and warm and unignorable was spreading through Chris’ chest.

He turned; Jim was already out again, snoring softly. He was still a little drunk, wracked with grief and guilt (and not a little shame; Chris knew him well enough to say that), and exhausted; he might not even have known he said what he said.

But Chris knew it.

It had been soft, but clear, and almost instinctual. Like Jim’s whole body was on autopilot and that was the term that automatically sprung to his lips. It brought a fine tremor to Chris’ hand, he noticed, as he raked his fingers through his unwieldy hair.

Back in his bedroom, he climbed into bed, turned, and saw Phil, wide awake and turned back to face Chris.

“Everything okay?”

Still reeling a little, Chris settled into the pillows, tugged Phil closer to him, and spoke, very softly. “He called me Dad.”

Phil’s mouth opened in a soundless _oh!_ , then broke into a grin. He brought a hand up to cup Chris’ face, then chuckled under his breath. “He did, did he?” He stroked a hand along Chris’ shoulder, looping his arm around his partner’s. “How’d that make you feel?”

Chris shook his head. “Um,” he began elegantly. “Good. Good, obviously. Great. But. Confused, I guess? Surprised? Worried? I dunno.”

“Overwhelmed?” Phil supplied.

“That too.”

“Hmm.” Phil played with the hairs at the base of Chris’ neck. “Why do you think that is?”

“You’re really earning your psych degree tonight, aren’t you?”

“Deflecting from the issue. Nice try.”

Chris sighed. “I’m not good with this stuff.”

“I know. Try anyway.”

Chris swallowed, took a deep breath, then started talking. “You know what he means to me. You know how much I care about him. This just…it stirs up a lot, you know? I never wanted to be anybody’s _dad_. I ran away from it. I lost relationships because of it. I lost a _marriage_ because of it. I thought I’d be a terrible parent, and I’ve never not believed I was right about that. And Jim…Jim doesn’t even _know_ what a dad is _supposed_ to be. He only actually had one for fifty-six seconds. I just…I can’t bear to fuck Jim up, and I _certainly_ can’t be a George Kirk substitute.” Chris paused, gathering his wits, then looked straight at Phil. “I never wanted to be a father because I never wanted to be a _bad_ father. And I can’t even begin to understand how to be a good one. Especially not now.”

Phil stayed silent, listening, and let a pause linger after Chris was done before he spoke. “Okay,” he said into the darkness, “okay. Let’s neurosis-bust one by one, shall we? One,” he said, ticking off a finger on the back of Chris’ neck, “you lost relationships and a marriage _that were definitionally wrong for you_ because you didn’t want children, and it’s high time you stopped kicking your own ass over that. Two,” he ticked off another finger, “speaking as the person who knows you better than anyone, if you had to be a parent to an actual _child_ , through colic and potty training and curfews and learning to drive, you would lose your mind, and probably not be very good at it, it’s true. Three,” another finger, “Jim might not remember having a dad, but between his shit of a stepfather and that motherfucker Kodos, he _certainly_ knows what a father _isn’t_ supposed to be.”

Chris frowned. Phil had a point.

“Fourth, and most importantly,” Phil said, and this time his entire hand cupped the back of Chris’ neck, a steadying, grounding presence, “nobody, Jim included, is asking you to be George Kirk, or indeed, anything other than Chris Pike.”

“If things had gone differently,” Chris protested, “George Kirk is the one that Jim would be calling _Dad_ , not me.”

“Yes, and if things had gone differently, I would still be able to remember a time when I heard someone refer to Jim as _George Kirk’s son_ , rather than _Chris Pike’s boy._ As it stands, though…” He trailed off, letting a little shrug speak for itself.

The warm thing in Chris’ chest squeezed his heart. “He called me Dad,” he repeated, a little wondrous this time, smiling.

“He called you Dad,” Phil affirmed, “because even without the label, you always were.”

~

They let Jim sleep in the next morning, hungover and sandy-eyed as he undoubtedly would be when he woke up, and were having coffee in the kitchen when their door chimed. Phil and Chris shared a look of mutual understanding; they knew who it was going to be.

Chris went to answer the door and proved them right. Len stood there, massive bags under his eyes and hurting just as bad as Jim would be.

“Admiral,” he greeted quietly.

“How many times have I gotta tell you to call me Chris?” Chris said cheekily, ushering Len into the house and closing the door. “You look like shit. Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Len said, “I’m just here to see – ”

Jim sat up on the couch at the sound of Len’s voice, and Len immediately rushed to him, squeezing him tight. Chris could see Jim’s face buried in Len’s neck and hear broken remnants of Len’s whispered apologies.

Phil came over and leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen, smiling at the two of them, before he and Chris decided to give them some privacy.

When they came back into the living room a few minutes later, Len was helping Jim toss the one blanket over the back of the couch. Len headed to the foyer to have a quick (and probably sorely needed) word in private with Phil, and Jim folded the quilt himself, the one Chris had dragged down from the top shelf of the closet in the middle of the night.

Swollen eyes and wrinkled clothes notwithstanding, he looked happier, lighter, freer.

“Thanks for taking me in last night,” Jim said, almost bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I crashed what could’ve been a good night for you. I’m sorry. But…yeah. It meant a lot to me. Knowing I could come here.”

Chris looked at him, and was very suddenly overcome with a deep rush of affection. Without thinking on it too hard, he took the blanket from Jim and pulled him in, hugging him tightly.

Jim and Chris did not have the most demonstrative relationship. Hugs were reserved for Jim and Len’s wedding, days when Jim shipped out on the Enterprise, and the aftermath of medical emergencies, like being resurrected from the dead. This didn’t meet any of those criteria, but a display of the intense, protective, paternal love Chris felt in that moment seemed very, very appropriate in that moment – indeed, almost irresistible.

“You will always, always have a place here, son,” he said softly. “No matter what.”

Jim hugged him back, obviously a little confused about the vehemence of Chris’ statement. _He doesn’t remember_ , Chris realized - and then realized a breath later that it didn’t matter. They parted; Chris slapped him on the shoulder, then let Jim give Phil a brief hug and follow Len out of the house.

Phil smiled serenely at Chris, sidling up next to him and slipping an arm around his waist as Chris stared at the doorway.

“So, if I’m Dad,” Chris asked smartly, “does that make you Mom?”

Phil snorted and shook his head. “Love,” he said quietly, “I will _own_ that title.”


End file.
